


The Stars Are Looking Lovely

by uniformly (scramjets)



Series: Spitfire [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/uniformly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, the Intergalactic Government was overthrown. Three years after that, Lew found himself a wanted man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chuckler & Hoosier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skew/gifts), [rivlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/gifts), [amorekay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorekay/gifts).



> As always, based on the HBO representation.

*

Chuckler and Hoosier had met and cemented their friendship on a fuck-up of a mission two years ago. Back then, Chuckler worked for an intergalactic cooperation specialized in shuttling pieces of spacecraft between colonies and Hoosier—

Hoosier had tried to hijack his ship.

-

“If you want to live,” Chuckler said as he slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “You fucking send us into hyperspace.”

“Roger that,” Hoosier said, unperturbed by hostile fire that streaked past.

Chuckler grabbed the edge of the control unit, other arm lifted to brace against the cockpit that arched above their heads. “Any time now, buddy.”

Hoosier cut him a look, the red glow of tracer fire reflecting off the blond of his hair. He didn’t say anything and turned back to the spread of controls before him. A flick of a switch later and they were gone.

-

Hoosier knocked on the shell of the ship. “Surface damage,” he said.

Chuckler frowned as he studied the black streaks left behind by the dogfight. He reached up and palmed the closest one, sliding his hand across the length of it. Hoosier was right. Aside from the shallow indentations and the obvious discoloration, the Spitfire – name handpicked from the _Annal of Ancient Civilizations_ – was likely structurally sound. Chuckler made a note to program a thorough scan.

“Shit, Hoos,” Chuckler said as he stepped from the ship. “I’m still reeling we actually got through that in one piece.”

“The firepower’s a new thing,” Hoosier agreed as he lit up a cigarette. He balanced the stem between his fingers, head tilted to one side as he regarded the Spitfire. 

Even with the damage, the Spitfire cut an impressive figure in the small hanger. It was based on older design; the lines long and angular and nothing like the sleek ships and crafts that were more popular. They had bought it dirt cheap on a planet that sat on the outer regions, and had spent the better part of a year designing and implementing a flight and navigation system that was both the scourge and envy of the Intergalactic Dictatorship. 

Hoosier passed his cigarette to Chuckler, who pressed it between his lips and took a long draw.

“We’ll have to buff those out,” Hoosier said after a moment. He scratched at a point on his chest, just below his collar. “Wouldn’t want the Professor to be all cranky that he can’t write odes to her beauty anymore.”

“Hey,” Chuckler said as he passed the cigarette back. “I thought chicks dug scars.”

Hoosier smirked. “Not this one.”

-

Their next job came from Yukay-Zed — a planet that didn’t answer to the Dictatorship, and which sat on of the eastern border of the Zed-FourTwo system.

“This isn’t half suspicious at all,” Hoosier said as he flicked through his portable messenger.

Chuckler glanced up from the bowels of the Spitfire, still working on one of the busted deflector shields. He wiped his forehead with the arch of his wrist before moving to swing a leg over the downward curve of the Spitfire’s side. Chuckler landed on the ramp with an audible thump that caused the mesh to vibrate beneath his boots; the residual feel snaking through his body before he steadied.

“You reckon it’s a trap or something?” Chuckler asked as he approached Hoosier, wiping his hands on a grease rag.

Chuckler glanced to the messenger Hoosier held. It sat suspended just above the flat of Hoosier’s palm; a prototype of the InfoVisors that Dictatorship pilots used, and old enough to pick up dead-air signals that newer comm-systems filtered out. Hoosier made a sound at the back of his throat before he disconnected, the screen flickering once before disappearing. 

Chuckler leaned away, brows raised as he waited for Hoosier to make a decision. 

If they were any other vehicle in the galaxy— if they were any other pair of smugglers, a trip to Yukay-Zed would have been no more a threat as it would have been otherwise. But with the Dictatorship upping the ante in regards to their capture, it paid to possess a critical eye in terms of missions. A payment that was too good to be believed was usually a tip off. No amount of illicit cargo was worth that much.

“She fixed?” Hoosier asked, turning his attention to the ship.

“Yeah.” 

Chuckler shoved his hands in the pockets of his coveralls as he glanced to the Spitfire. They had managed to buff out the damage from earlier that week and painted over the marks left behind. Chuckler had added to the design, painting a blue circle that was inlaid with smaller red one on each side of the ship. He had lifted the idea from the _Annals_.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Hoosier nodded to the symbol. “But that’s there to make us more of a target, isn’t it?”

“I’ll remove it once we’re done with the mission,” Chuckler promised. “Think of it as a disguise.”

Hoosier gave him a look. “Unless you’ve managed to infuse a cloaking device with the paint, I wouldn’t stock much faith in your disguise.”

Chuckler shrugged and looked back up to the Spitfire. She was a beauty of a craft; his pride and joy. He didn’t plan to remove the symbol at all.

\- 

From afar, Yukay-Zed looked desolate. It was a giant red ball, streaked by the dust storms that swept across its surface. Nothing natural grew there: water had to be created and harvested for consumption, and clusters of oxygen towers had been established in key zones. It was out of the way and oppressive in its heat.

Hoosier reached up and flicked a switch that cut power to the auxiliary engine. Another switch firmed the underlying suspension of the ship, preparing the Spitfire for landing.

They landed at the designated meeting area with nothing but sand dunes stretching out in all directions. Heat flooded in as soon as Chuckler cracked open the hatch and spilled into the cabin.

“Holy hell,” Chuckler breathed.

“Suck it up, Lew,” Hoosier told him.

“Just because it reminds you of the miserable pit you call a home planet,” Chuckler said as he scrambled out, boots scuffing against the metal hatch. 

There wasn’t any point in lowering the loading dock with no one there, and it paid to keep the sand out of the hardware. Chucker wasn’t interested in disemboweling the internal controls to clean the grit out. He had made that mistake the first time they had ventured to Yukay-Zed.

The mission was a simple transport of cargo, dimensions six foot tall by one foot wide. The briefing hadn’t offered much more than that, apart from the figure they would receive in return. 

“This has to be a trap,” Chuckler said as he looked around.

There was no one there. No one to meet them at the allocated spot. Chuckler felt the heat of the sun bear down on his shoulders and sweat prickling at the nape of his neck. Hoosier stepped beside him, the crunch of sand announcing his presence. 

“What you think, Hoos?”

Gunfire sliced through Hoosier’s response, and Chuckler swore, landing on his ass as he scrambled back, boots lacking traction on the superfine sand. A shot scorched the ground beside Chuckler’s hand and the residual heat blistered his skin.

Chuckler felt Hoosier grab his jersey as a figure crested a sand dune.

“Get in the ship!” the figure – a man – called.

He was adept to running on sand, no speed lost as he closed the distance to the Spitfire.

“The fuck are you?” Hoosier asked over the growing sound of gunfire. Chuckler – not for the first time – wondered how the hell Hoosier could keep his cool when they were being shot at. “And who the fuck you brought along?”

“Not a good time to talk,” the man said. He was dressed in the traditional garb of the planet, with a sand colored hood pulled up to obscure his features. Chuckler caught a flash of tanned skin as the Runner glanced back towards the sand dune he had crossed. He regarded them once more. “I’m your cargo.”

-

“There’s something wrong with you,” Chuckler told Hoosier the moment they had exited the planet’s gravitational pull. They escaped just in time. Chuckler had caught sight the Enforcer’s uniforms just as they closed the hatch, along with the black-silver gleam of their weapons.

Hoosier responded with an offer of a lit cigarette and a nod to the Runner collapsed on one of the side-seats, unslung from where it had been secured for landing. Chuckler took a long draw from the cigarette in an effort to shake off the lingering nerves. The length of his hand stung, he realized— the burn a steady pulse on his skin. It was too small to bother treating, and Chuckler wouldn’t mind the scar. It would be different against skin otherwise unmarked thanks to DeTone fluid. 

“Who are you then?” Chuckler asked.

The man shrugged off his tunic hood with little flair. He was younger than Chuckler expected, likely no older than himself, with dark blue eyes on a tanned face that was exceptionally pleasing to look at. His cropped hair stuck to his temples with sweat, adding a boyish slant to his serious expression.

“Not our business to pick up Runners,” Hoosier added from the cockpit.

“I know,” the Runner said, “the payment would have covered the risk.”

“Barely,” Hoosier said.

“I need to get to the Daltor system,” the Runner said, undeterred by the reception.

“Lew—” Hoosier spoke with exaggerated patience. “Get your ass here.”

“Got it,” Chuckler said as he moved to take Hoosier’s place at the controls. There wasn’t much to do in terms of steering, now that they were clear of Yukay-Zed, but it wasn’t unlikely that a fleet of Enforcers would be on their tail. Chuckler wasn’t as adept at flying as Hoosier, but he could get them out of a tight spot.

“Kid,” Chuckler heard Hoosier start. 

He glanced over his shoulder, at where Hoosier stood with one foot perched on the seat beside the Runner as he leaned forward and closed him in. “I told you before, we’re not in the business of Runners – funds or not. Furthermore, and in case you missed that, we’re not a taxi service.”

“You move cargo around,” the Runner said, “the only difference between that and this is that I’m not packaged and I’m telling you where to go now as opposed to in the briefing.”

“I don’t care,” Hoosier told him. “We’re going to drop you off at the nearest Allied sys—“

“Hoos,” Chuckler interrupted, “we can take him to Daltor.”

There was a pause. “No,” Hoosier said, “we can not.”

Chuckler looked over and caught Hoosier’s flat stare. Chuckler knew that Hoosier was close to losing his impressive cool. He didn’t necessarily tense when aggravated and, right then, Hoosier’s body was deceptively relaxed, lit cigarette still dangling between his fingers.

“C’mon,” Chuckler said, “he’s paying triple, half upfront—“

“Think long term here,” Hoosier said, “we don’t need any more reasons for Enforcers to be on our ass. Taking advantage of loopholes is one thing—“

“The only repercussion is that we’ll be bumped up on the most wanted list. We’re doing illegal shit anyway. And even if,” Chuckler continued, raising his voice to override Hoosier. “You don’t want to be aligned with any particular group of people, the fact is we’ve been on the side of the Allies since they established, and you pretend we aren’t.”

Hoosier remained silent and Chuckler stared resolutely forward until he heard Hoosier swear and stalk off, disappearing into the belly of the ship.

“Yeah,” Chuckler said after a brief silence. “You owe me.”

“Oh,” the Runner said, “and the overthrow of the Dictatorship not enough?”

“Overthrow the Dictatorship first and then we’ll see.”

-

Hoosier was still in a foul mood at dinner, only sticking around long enough to eat and throw both him and the Runner dirty looks before leaving. 

“Shit,” the Runner said – Chuckler had since learned that his name was Will, but Runner seemed to suit him better – “is he always like that?”

“He’s pedantic.” Chuckler said, and grinned when Runner raised his brows. “He’s annoyed that he programmed everything to receive a six foot tall box, when you’re 5’6” at best. What’s at Daltor then?”

Runner’s expression smoothed and he reached for a piece of hard bread. “You’ll see when we get there,” was the eventual answer. 

Chuckler frowned. It had been like this the entire time. Whether personal questions or more vague ones, up to and including space weather (“how about that meteor shower, huh?”), the Runner wasn’t interested in answering. Chuckler stared at Runner’s profile, his previous attractiveness spoiled by his obtrusive nature. 

Hoosier probably had a point in dumping on the closest Allied colony.

-

“So,” Chuckler started. He dragged the ‘o’. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been using the boosters. We got enough fuel for that?”

Hoosier rolled his shoulders. “I want to get rid of the guy.”

“What are you talking about? He’s friendly. Conversational. Open. Honest.” Chuckler paused after each alleged trait. “What more could you ask for in terms of illegal cargo?”

“Funny,” Hoosier said as he fiddled with the navigation unit, as if the coordinates had reset itself in the minute he had last checked. “No idea why I stick around.”

“Because you like my face.”

Hoosier flashed him a look. “You heard the news this morning?”

“News?—“

“Basilone’s dead,” Hoosier told him. He punctuated his words with a stab of a button, transferring power to another engine. “Assassinated they say.” 

Chuckler’s stomach dropped to his boots. “Are you serious?”

“No, I made it up to fuck with you,” Hoosier said, “if we turn up onto Daltor—” he continued, abandoning the controls to round onto Chuckler, crowding in enough for Chuckler to smell the soap he used that morning. “To an ambush. To a company of Enforcers or anything remotely resembling that—I’m telling them you took me hostage.”

Chuckler couldn’t help his laughter, short and loud in the enclosed space. “You’re shitting me,” he said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I’m the one that started off the model citizen here. You were wanted way before I was.” 

“And you trust me to tell the truth when we’re caught, right?”

Chuckler lifted his hands placatingly and grinned. “We won’t get caught.”

Hoosier shook his head and turned away.

-

The trip to Daltor took four days. Jump-speed would have gotten them there quicker, but would have used up twice the fuel, even if Hoosier disabled the boosters. Plus the long way ‘round wouldn’t hurt, Chuckler had explained to Runner – and then to Hoosier in private – considering the circumstances. 

Daltor’s political position would have not gone unnoticed by the Dictatorship – a declared neutral, but obviously not if anyone looked – and the route to the planet would have been monitored. 

“Here,” Runner said as they approached. 

Against the backdrop of space, Daltor was a bright blue ball studded with green and streaked with white. It looked like the old planet Earth, which had eroded away several millennia ago; buried beneath slabs of concrete and machinery before it had been swallowed by its system’s sun.

Hoosier caught Chuckler’s gaze pointedly when Runner hip-nudged Hoosier from the cockpit. Runner brought up the telecommunications board and tapped in a security code. The neutral blue light in the corner of the device turned a sharp green and Runner flicked a grin to Chuckler. “Unless you guys were keen on being gunned down.”

“That how you greet all your tourists?” Hoosier said.

“I guarantee that none of the visitors we get are tourists, Smith.”

“Lew might like you,” Hoosier said, “but I would not think twice into stuffing you in the only escape pod we have, and abandoning it in the outer regions. Just give me one reason.”

This had been the last four days. 

Chuckler shuffled Runner from the cockpit, leaving him and Hoosier to glare at each other as he made adjustments for landing. The last time he had visited Daltor had been before it had turned into an Allied base, and he had fond memories of the beachscapes there. The sunburn he could live without.

A shudder went through the Spitfire when Chuckler made ground contact. “Alright, kids, we’re here,” he announced as he powered down the engines. “I hope you packed your swimsuits, because it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to buy any.”

Somewhere behind him, Hoosier told Chuckler to fuck off. “I’m stayin’ on the ship,” Hoosier continued, louder. 

Chuckler stood and took the time to stretch before he said, “C’mon, Hoos. I know you’re cranky because we ran out of cigarettes. Let’s go get some more, yeah?”

-

“I don’t know how you can put up with that,” Runner said to Chuckler as they collected his gear. There wasn’t much, just a stack of official looking documents which Runner had hidden, folded beneath his clothes.

Chuckler flicked him a look. “He’s loyal, trustworthy and a damn good pilot,” he said, “and he’s been those things for the last two years, even when the Government went to shit and we were stuck number three in the top five wanted list. So, yeah,” Chuckler said as he grabbed an extra bag for supplies. “Yeah, I put up with the times he’s cranky because I forced him into a situation he doesn’t want to be in, and that he’s only tolerating for me.”

Runner looked away, but for once he didn’t push.

Hoosier met them at the hatch, arms loosely folded as he leaned back against the wall.

“Ready whenever you are,” Chuckler called out.

Hoosier opened the hatch and climbed out. A bit of residual dust from Yukay-Zed billowed from the release of tension and floated in and out of the warm light that streamed through the opening.

Chuckler handed Hoosier the two spare bags and hauled himself out of the ship after him, leaving enough space for Runner to climb out as he marveled at the feel of the sun on his skin. He tilted his head back and let it burn on his face.

“You guys sure damn pick the best planet to raise a coup from,” Chuckler commented as Runner pulled the hatch shut after him. 

They had landed at the border of a jungle, where the thick trees gave way to knee high vegetation and grass. In the middle distance, there was a cluster of squat, cement-grey buildings, partially bordered with a tall gate. 

Runner pointed. “That’s where we go,” he said before heading off.

“Friendly. Conversational. Open,” Hoosier said as he fell in step beside Chuckler, voice low. “Honest.”

“I know you’re all sad at having your best friend go away for a while, but we can always come visit once I’ve met his parents. Anyway,” Chuckler continued after making sure they were out of earshot. “We’re getting the rest of our payment, we’re getting restocked and we’re getting rid of him. You should be happy right now. Smiling, even. Smiling?”

“I’ll consider it once we’re gone with the rest of our payment and without him.” Hoosier ran his fingers through his hair. Without a cigarette, it was as if he had no idea what to do with his hands.

The heat of the sun on Chuckler’s skin was edging into painful when they reached the base. Chuckler welcomed the cool air and made a beeline for the water dispenser, taking back an extra glass for Hoosier.

“Leckie,” Runner called out. Chuckler watched over the rim of his glass as Runner disappeared into a room offside. 

He started to check out their surroundings – nondescript and bare, save for the necessities – when Runner returned with another man. The man greeted them with a crooked smile and an extended hand. Chuckler liked him immediately, but Hoosier would accuse him of taking to everybody like some kind of puppy, so it probably didn’t count for much.

“Bob Leckie,” he said as they shook hands.

“Lew,” Chuckler said, keeping it simple. The name sounded familiar. “Have we met?”

Hoosier gave Chuckler a look as Leckie said, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Leckie writes for the Report,” Runner explained.

“Holy shit,” Chuckler said, the name of the dead-air station and the initials B.L clicking. “You’re the Professor? The guy who composes love songs to the Spitfire?”

“I don’t know about being a professor, but otherwise, yes,” Leckie said after a pause. “That would be me.”

-

Leckie insisted they stay the night, it being the least they could do. 

“Payment and a pack of smokes would’ve been enough,” Hoosier said.

Leckie gave Hoosier an appraising look. 

Chuckler waved a hand toward Hoosier. “He’s cranky because he hasn’t had a smoke for a day and half.”

“He’s cranky because that’s how he comes,” Runner amended. He ignored the look Hoosier gave him and flicked through some documents.

Leckie shuffled a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and offered it to Hoosier, tipping the box toward him so that he could pull one out. Hoosier snagged the entire packet and pocketed it instead. 

“For dealing with him,” Hoosier said with a nod toward Runner.

“What did you do?” Leckie asked Runner, who shrugged.

Chuckler gestured to Leckie, hands and fingers spread as if it encompassed the last four days. “ _The entire trip_.”

“C’mon,” Leckie said with another crooked grin, as if he found the situation funnier than it was. “Let’s get you guys a shower and some food.”

-

The accommodation was Spartan, but adequate, and bigger than it all looked on the outside. Most of the base was located underground, with routes to smaller ships some clicks outside of the base parameter. 

Runner branched off at the first underground corridor. “I’ll catch up,” he said as he lifted his file. “Gotta report to the Captain.”

Leckie nodded and gestured them on.

“Topside is meant to look abandoned,” Leckie said over his shoulder as they walked past a near steady stream of men and women, some in uniform and others not. There were more than a few looks thrown their way, most curious and a couple hostile. “Enforcers are doing planetary sweeps more often now and we’re right on top of the list.”

Leckie took them to a large office; cheery, despite the lack of windows. 

“Gibs, These guys need some ID,” Leckie said to the awkward looking man behind the desk.

“Right,” Gibs said as he fumbled around for some forms and a clipboard, setting two of them up before sliding them on the counter. “You’ll need to fill these in.”

Chuckler glanced at the sort of questions the forms were asking. He looked to Hoosier who stood with his hands in his pockets and then back to Leckie. 

Chuckler said, “We don’t put things down on paper,” at the same time Hoosier said, “Screw that bureaucratic bullshit.”

Gibs launched into something about protocol, stuttering to a stop when Leckie lifted his hands. “It’s fine,” he said.

“What’s fine?” Runner asked as he entered the room.

“Everything’s fine,” Chuckler said before anybody else could speak up. “We were just about to leave.”

By his elbow, the slightest bit of tension unraveled from Hoosier’s body. “’bout goddamn time.”

Runner stepped from the doorway as they headed out. 

“Hold on,” Leckie said.

Hoosier didn’t stop and barged through the crowd while Chuckler angled back towards Leckie in question.

Leckie opened his mouth and then changed his mind. “Thanks,” he said instead. Leckie shifted his weight at the door, the movement allowing Chuckler a glimpse of Runner who stood at the desk and grinned down to the man who sat behind it, wide and gleeful. 

“No worries,” Chuckler said, “just shoot the rest of the funds through and we’ll call it even.”

-

Hoosier had the Spitfire ready to go by the time Chuckler reached it. Chuckler glanced back to the unassuming set of buildings before he hauled himself through the hatch and latched it shut after him. They hadn’t even managed to secure any supplies and would need to make a pit stop.

“Hey,” Chuckler said as he came up behind Hoosier at the cockpit. He palmed the sharp angle of the control seat.

“Ready?” Hoosier said. He spoke around a lit cigarette and slanted a glare up to Chuckler when he stole it and took a long draw.

“C’mon,” Chuckler said with a grin as he moved to secure himself in the co-pilot’s seat for take-off, straps tight against his shoulders. “Get us off this goddamn rock.”


	2. Will & Leckie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough mission, and Will's just relieved to be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not externally beta'd. Please let me know if additional warnings, etc, are necessary. Also, this became about 150% more serious than I was expecting.

*

“So,” Gibson raised his brows. “How it’d go?”

Will looked across the room where he could see Lew’s grin from over Leckie’s shoulder.

He turned back to Gibson, tuned his voice for the maximum amount of _no fucks given_ and said, “It was fine, travel-wise. Company could have been better.”

He hadn’t meant to say the last part, but it had slipped out before Will could bite it back. Gibson grinned. Will ignored it and slid the clipboards across the desk, tips of his fingers sticking to the paper. It would have made things easier if they had accepted the offer. The Alliance would have guaranteed protection and funding, instead of having to sift through whatever they received to find real work among poorly executed set-ups released by Enforcers.

Lew had mentioning the set-ups in passing, probably forgetting that Will was present as he scrolled through received comms on his InfoSystem.

“This is definitely a trap,” Lew had waved the IS for emphasis, like it was some toy and not one of the handful of untracked and untraceable devices people like him had access to. “20-fucking-k? Shit. Imagine having that sorta credit to throw around. Look at how precise the grammar is. Who says ‘verily’?”

Lew had turned a grin to Hoosier, who had shrugged before flicking a sharp look to Will. Will had returned the look evenly, save for a subtle lift of his chin. It wasn’t as if he was involved with the rigged jobs the Enforcers set out. Hoosier could keep on looking as far as he was concerned. And Leckie said shit like verily, Will wanted to add. He ached for a connection, but had steeled himself against it, and there wasn’t a halfway point between the two: everything he said had been short and clipped, which went at odds to the jerky want of just a touch on the shoulder. _Leckie said shit like verily_ , but the words had cramped in his mouth until they had faded with the dragging quiet of the ship.

Gibson unclipped the paperwork and set them in a tidy pile back in the drawer, sealed away. Will imagined doing the same with the last few days.

With his thoughts steady, Will drummed his knuckles against the desk and said, “You off for lunch?” just as Leckie sidled up, all loose and languid to tell him: “Ronnie’s manning the comms.”

Will levelled something deliberate to Gibson and _dared_ him to flake. “Gibs? Lunch?”

Gibson caught the message loud and clear, and had frozen. Will recognised the look on Gibson’s face for what it was: panic. And when Gibson got it together enough to speak, it was a tentative, “I’ve… gotta man the comms…?” like he had zero idea what to offer otherwise.

“Shame,” Leckie said, with a grin. “We’ll save something for you.”

Gibson mouthed an apology and Will shook his head. Gibson tried again, lifting his hands to trace a heart before he feigned it breaking – popped apart down the middle. Will rolled his eyes and forgave him anyway, though he gave Gibson the finger just to make him stew.

“How’d the mission go?” Leckie asked as he steered them out of the reception.

“It went fine,” Will said. “You saw.”

Leckie slung an arm around him once the hallway opened up, and they turned for the mess hall. The added weight, sudden and surprising, made Will stagger and swear, but his annoyance ended in a short laugh when Leckie shoved him away with a grin, crooked and cocky in the way Will liked.

Everything in Will’s body loosened at once, as if the last month was sloughed away, and he shrugged. “Yeah, well, aside from Hoosier being an ass. You saw,” he added.

The mess hall was the largest room of the facility with a higher-set ceiling dug in with strip lights instead of batons. A part of the complex was visible above ground under the guise of an empty hanger, the ships and crafts held elsewhere.

Three long metallic table bench sets took up most of the area, leaving the open kitchen attached but separate. During delegated meal times, food was set out like a buffet and the line-up snaked to the double doors. Outside of schedule, sandwiches and other long life, shelf stable foods were offered, along with something fresh, depending on resources. A team on a scouting mission had brought back a crate of oranges a week ago, Leckie told him, and Will collected a scragglier – skin pockmarked and a little bruised, the size of it neat in his palm – while Leckie sorted out the coffee.

They regrouped at the end of the furthest table, their choice, no one else was using the facilities, and Will swung a leg over the bench and set the orange down before seating. Leckie tossed him a sandwich and then slid across a tin of coffee, steam curling over the wide mouth.

Will took a hot mouthful, thin and bitter, and it scalded the shit out of him.

“Shit,” Will said, his skin still prickling with sweat and mouth sore a full minute later.

They had broken open one of the oranges, Leckie allowing him the honours, and the juice of it stung the ripped sides of his nails. “Didn’t think I’d miss this.”

“What? Fake bread and watered down coffee?”

Will popped a piece of fruit in his mouth and savoured the sourness across his tongue, the taste as strong as it smelled. The scouting team deserved a goddamn medal for the find, and Will told Leckie as such before he said, “It’s home,” and he picked a good time to return, apparently. He couldn’t remember the last time he had an actual orange. “And it beats the regenerated stuff.”

Regenerated stuff: pelleted food that expanded when wet and tasted like soggy cardboard all while remaining impossible to bite through. The entire experience then underlined with a metallic tang, which was the protein powder and vitamins, and the ruined hopes and dreams of space travel. The joke was that no one called it food, just ‘stuff’, and Will had four in his pack when he left Daltor roughly a month prior, and returned with two and a half.

Leckie passed him another slice of thin sandwich, the fibres grainy beneath Will’s fingers as he accepted. He ate it without thinking, a little dry and mealy, the protein based middle a tasteless slab that everyone pretended was chicken, but, god, it was good. They shared the last of the orange, split as even as they could, and Will sucked on his fingers after even though he was a good twenty something years and not some child, as Leckie pointed out. He wasn’t full, but at least the cramping in his gut had abated and his hands were a little steadier.

“We never got them resupplied,” Leckie said.

Will wrapped his hands around his coffee tin, clicked his nails against the dinted surface. He didn’t feel guilty, not exactly, but. Still. He was human.

“Hoosier was in a pretty big rush to leave,” Will said.

He stared at his tin for a second longer before glancing up. “They have contacts,” Will said, less steady than he would have liked.

Leckie cocked a brow, forehead wrinkling in a way that made him appear older than he was. Will wondered if he looked the same – older in the face of instability and warfare; stepping up where the government crumbled and taking arms to contribute in a war that spanned galaxies, no discernible end in sight. It felt like he did: body heavy and sore, ears ringing with the blast of phasers and the residual feel of his body alight in panic, difficult to shake off.

“I did source some intel ‘round Catalina,” Will said around the faint threat of nausea. “Some movement near the Oldavi system that could be worth looking into.”

“You get me anything from Catalina?” Leckie asked first. “Oldavi? The dead zone?”

Will nodded. Oldavi had been delegated a dead zone for 150 years, after a viral outbreak ripped through the civilisation and wiped the population out. No one had been game enough to go back and there had been talk back then to destroy the planet, wipe it out before it could do the same to neighbouring civilisations. On record, Oldavi Prime remained uninhabited, its status listed as ‘ _Unfit to support life_ ’ in the planetary register. But there had been word of a ship limping into the black curtain of Oldavi Prime’s atmosphere, something shiny and small, gunned down the side. It had been the best lead Will had got and he had followed it until it had petered out on Yukay-Zed, a hand span away from Oldavi in the grand scheme of things.

Will stared into his mug, the black surface of his coffee jolting him back into the belly of the Spitfire – the cool, metallic interior and the familiar hum of her engines, lulling him to sleep in the cabin coupled with the easy comfort of space; the stars and the endless faces of planets; the milky plumes of galaxies and the hidden voids of black holes along with all the complexities of numbers and science that made everything possible.

A thud on the table startled him back into the present.

“Your next assignment,” Leckie said.

Will slid a hand over his face and allowed his bones to settle for a second longer before he reached for the file. It came in a thin folder, the edges furry with repeated use. The pages inside were clipped together, font small and narrow because the paper had been used for a previous mission – old parameters roughly scrubbed out. Not exactly professional, but they didn’t have the luxury of supply.

There was another silence while Will skimmed the first page: a data collection from one of their allies across galaxy prime, near Methos. Will’s attention snagged on that point, and he rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. Methos, aside from the inconvenience of being either mostly wet or mostly ice, was a low rung on the Dictatorship tier. Even if Uwali minor – the rendezvous; a dot of a planet besides Methos – was a good distance from the system, it would be close enough for the job to be more than casually hazardous.

Leckie hooked a finger over the top of the folder and dragged it down before Will had the chance to flip the page. “I’m coming with,” he said.

There was a moment of blankness, the words Leckie said not actually processing before Will felt his face rearrange itself. “You’re…—what?”

Leckie slipped the file out of Will’s hands completely, grip having fallen slack. “I’m coming with you,” he said, “that’s what the rest of it says.”

“Don’t get food on the paperwork,” Will said, for lack of anything better.

He shook his head and tried again. “You— You don’t do missions, Bob.”

Leckie ate the last slice of his orange, a wedge that Will _knew_ he would have saved for this moment, and wiped his hands on his dungarees. “Not usually, no.”

“No,” Will repeated.

He forced himself to relax his arms, still fixed in place from when he was holding up the folder and he set them down stiffly, detachedly aware of the chill of the metallic bench on his skin. “No. You don’t get to do that. The whole… I’ve just left Basic and know everything thing. Because we left Basic years ago. We—”

Will made a grab for the folder and was a little surprised when Leckie didn’t keep a hold on it. He sat back down hard.

“You’ll need someone who can fly—“

“I can fly,” Will said, papers clutched hard in his hands.

“And who’s trained to handle the machine guns.”

If Leckie was talking machine guns…

Will’s mind skipped to the C12-10s. Small, mosquito like craft – two attached enhanced warp drive scramjets, a narrow-nosed design, damn near untraceable on radar, any radar, and all of that alongside a mounted machine gun system; weaponry old but upgraded, able to function in any terrain and so basic in design that they were easy to maintain and repair. Will scrubbed a hand over his face, breathed into the hollow of his palm and felt the heat of his breath reflected back at him.

“This is out of protocol,” Will said when he straightened.

“We’re scheduled to meet with Commander Riggi in ten minutes for briefing.”

“What the hell.” His temper had flared, the heat of it smouldering in the background of his thoughts, but he was to worn for it to fully catch and Will sagged back where he sat, weight rested on his hands as he tipped his head back to stare at the smooth blank ceiling lofted above them.

“Thought you would appreciate hearing it from me first.”

Will said, “Jesus,” Will’s great-grandmother used to say that whenever she was upset, gesture to the sky and say _Jesus_ , in her heavy accent. Will had zero idea who Jesus actually was, but to use it came as natural as breathing. “Spare me the bullshit, Peaches. We using the C12s?”

“Got it in one.”

“The hell for?” Will asked.

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off fatigue. The idea of Leckie joining him didn’t sit entirely steady yet, but if it was the parameters he was working with, best get used to it now. Or maybe he was too tired to fight it, which was probably why Leckie – the asshole – picked now to corner him with it.

Will continued, “It’s an intelligence mission.” _I handle those myself_ , went unsaid.

Back a couple of years ago, intelligence and recon went in pairs. But then, back a couple of years ago, they had a few more people on Daltor, too.

“How thin are we spread, anyway? Do we even have the resources for that?”

“Who am I to question the commander,” Leckie tapped the file with a finger. “C’mon, I don’t want my ass chewed out if we’re late.”

-

Commander Lena Riggi took the reins of the Daltor outpost not long after Will and Leckie had returned from their first disaster of a mission. A great bulk of that time – some couple of months – Will could only remember in hazy blocks of detail: the burning that lanced through the meat of his thigh and his shoulder, the disorientation of blood loss; the agonising march to recovery thanks to the lack of DeTone, cartridges of the fluid delivered a month too late. It still hurt to bear his weight on his left leg, or to fully rotate his arm, and the ache of it was always there – deeper when it was cold, cleaving down to his bones.

The soreness of it was only starting to recede after YuKay-Zed, pain wending down to his ankle then up through to the crest of his hip, then mirrored on the opposite side of his body from the wrist to the cuff of his shoulder, ligaments, joints and muscles aching after having to accommodate for, what, running?

Will straightened his shoulders as they headed to the Commander’s offices, the rooms just as bare and basic as the rest of the establishment.

“Leckie, Conley,” Lena Riggi greeted them once they had been cleared to enter.

She stood when she talked. No one bothered with salutes, because the war had taken them far past that point. They sat.

The files that Will had given her earlier sat on the corner of her desk. The sheets were ruffled slightly. Lena smiled, but the expression was tight and it flickered away.

“I apologise for having to deploy you again so soon, Will.”

There used to be a minimum week between missions.

“But we need you to collect some intel from Uwali minor. Lt. Stone is in the middle of planting our own team, he can’t spare anyone to relay—“

Will nodded.

Lena inhaled, her attention shifting from him, to Leckie, and back again. “I take it Robert has already informed you of the circumstances.”

“Ma’am,” Will forced the affirmation out, word scraping against his throat.

He cleared it, felt the quick glance Leckie cast towards him.

“The task in itself is straightforward, the C12s are precaution. The radio waves and X-waves are too tightly controlled for anything other than physical contact, so until Methos is neutralised—“

Will refrained from closing his eyes.

“The both of you are delegated to this run.”

“Understood, Commander,” Leckie said.

“Understood,” Will added, a beat later.

They were dismissed soon after, assigned deploy time being Standard Universal Time (SUT) oh-sixhundred.

-

Everybody shared quarters. Will and Leckie’s bunk were standard issue, the tight space littered with scraps of Leckie’s writing, and the odds and ends collected over the years. A handful of vintage style film photos were tacked on the wall, mostly of blurred smiles and the odd scenic view of a waterfall, or a trashy space junket, the colours neon against the concrete wall. They had made a point, when they had first settled in, not to keep anything of value. The compound could be raided, the entire planted could be razed; only the cheap assortment of trinkets and postcards collected during missions carried as much value, these days, as family heirlooms. Will added the poker chip from Catalina to the collection, the credit value still illuminated on the face of it.

Will kneaded his bad shoulder as he lifted his attention to the photos on the wall, looking for any new ones and making sure old favourites were still in place, then he turned to his bed.

“Shit,” Leckie said, when he saw the books piled there, a heap of ‘em, enough for a couple to have slipped onto the floor. “I’ll clean that up in a sec.”

“Yeah, right,” Will said.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, still wet from his shower. They were drying in soft clumps on his head and falling into his eyes no matter how much he pushed it back.

“I’ll take yours.”

“Seriously, give me two— goddamnit, Will.”

Will made a show of wriggling under the scratchy sheets of Leckie’s bed and spreading out.

“You were the one who left that pile of crap there,” Will said as he rubbed his face, eyes starting to burn with fatigue.

He slid his hand over a yawn and settled in the Leckie-shaped depression on the mattress. Will leaned up on one elbow and flipped the pillow, then settled down again.

He was distantly aware of Leckie shifting the piles of books back onto the floor, swearing every so often when he dropped something, almost too far gone to care about the amount of noise Leckie made. The bed smelled like Leckie, an easy welcome comfort, and Will turned on his stomach to stuff his face into the pillow.

“You would’ve liked them,” Will said once Leckie had stopped moving around so much.

“Huh?”

Will shuffled so that his mouth wasn’t pressed against fabric.

“You would’ve liked them,” he said again, voice muzzy. “Chuckler’n Hoosier. You named them, right?”

There was a pause, then, “Yeah,” Leckie said, “but I think you should sleep.”

Will had duly closed his eyes, but he listened out for Leckie, pictured what he was doing based on what he heard. Right then he was writing, head bent over a book, pen in hand. Robert Leckie would have been one of the very few people Will knew who preferred to manually write. The other person being his great-grandmother again, because she had been taught by her own mother, the skill of cursive consequently passed down until it had petered out with him. Best Will could do was a couple of swirly capital letters in an extinct language, but Leckie’s hand – with the short and sharp loops – reminded him of his grandmother’s.

“What does Hoosier mean anyway?”

The scratch of pen stopped, and Leckie smiled, Will heard it in his voice when he answered. “It’s from home,” The Jersey system, Will knew, one of the Old Colonies. “Some antiquated form of ‘hillbilly’.”

“I’m rolling my eyes right now, Leckie. ‘Some antiquated form of hillbilly’. No wonder they call you the Professor.”

“I do what I can.”

Will scoffed. “What’re you writing?”

“Propaganda. So the Dictatorship doesn’t think we’ve given up and they’ve won or anything.”

“Maybe we should let them think that,” Will said. “Catch ‘em on their back foot.”

“You can bring that up with Lena.”

Will hummed. He felt his body relax by inches, his fingers twitching against the sheets. He refrained from rubbing his face against the pillow again, not wanting to come across like some deranged space creature, but it was a close thing.

“You write anymore letters to Vera?” Will slurred. “While I was away?”

“A couple,” Leckie said.

“Read em to me?”

There was a shuffle of pages before Leckie cleared his throat and started, Will not so much listening to the words, but letting the cadence of them wash over him as steady as the hum of the Spitfire’s engines. Will felt the press of Leckie’s hand against the back of his head in the space between wake and sleep, touch lingering before Leckie withdrew, and then he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always up for Team Leckie shenanigans on [Tumblr](http://scramjets.tumblr.com/).


End file.
